Synchro. José Miguel Sánchez Guitian

that there is hope… Impossible. The smile did not appear and they both turned their eyes to the white coffin as it touched the bottom.

      The flowers would come later, tossed into the ditch, the shovel and the earth spilling over it; and then, the unbearable hugs, one after the other. A time for crying that would condense tears into a dense and salty fog. She had already experienced it two years before, a time when tears had surged from her eyes during her last goodbye to her friend and partner, Laura, ‘almost at the same time as they discovered that Lucas had cancer’, thought the lieutenant.

      Cristina was immersed once again in the fog that the loss of a son generates, as she remembered her friend and workmate, Laura, who was buried close to here. ‘For the love of God, Laura, look after Lucas; now that you are both together, take care of him’. She held onto that thought while she went through the formalities of lost hugs and the ‘I’m sorry for your loss’s. She had met Laura Almillar in the Desierto de los Leones Police School, where they trained and studied every morning of the required twenty-one weeks that the course lasted. She had been forced to leave her child with the neighbors while they both worked as waitresses at Tapitas. Laura had been her only friend, Lucas had been everything else. After many hours directing traffic, their chance finally arrived and they took it at once. Cristina at Narcotics and Laura at the Criminal Brigade.

      It had happened on the last day of September; Cristina remembered it well because it had been the day after Lucas’ birthday. Laura had been there with Albi, a German shepherd that was always stuck to her side; she called him her ‘novio’. The day after, during a simple routine assault, Laura, protected by her bulletproof vest, entered the house of a murder suspect through the garden door, an architect who’d presumably murdered his secretary. Inside, by the entrance, they were welcomed by a deflagration that shattered the entire glass door right before their eyes. A bomb programmed to end the life of the police who came to the house. The architect had committed suicide a few hours earlier, leaving that surprise behind to increase the hatred his memory might raise.

      Laura died instantly. Afterwards, Lucas remembered her dog, Albi. But, when Cristina went to her house to fetch him, the animal was gone. She was convinced that a neighbor must have taken him.

      Laura was buried close to Lucas, thought Cristina, next to the three fir trees at the back. ‘Laura, Lucas knows you; he’s alone now, but if he sees you, he’ll grow calm. Laura, be his temporary mother, please. He’s a good boy, you know him, a bit cheeky and absentminded but a good boy after all. He’s all yours.’

      “Hello, Cristina; I’m sorry about your son”.

      Cristina woke up from her trance. The guy in front of her was that two-faced worm, Alex.

      “What are you doing here?” Cristina said, raising her voice, “what, you’ve come to your son’s funeral? Ten years ignoring him and now… you come here to meet him. Well, you’re late”. She lifted her hand, ready to unload her anger on his face with all her remaining strength. “Son of a bitch!”

      Alex swallowed, ready for the slap.

      “I only wanted to offer you my condolences. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry”.

      Guzmán reached Cristina’s side and held her by the shoulders, trying to calm her down. He looked at Alex. The three of them were alone.

      “You should leave. This isn’t a good time for surprises”.

      Alex turned and walked away, slowly and downcast. Cristina was left alone with Guzmán; the spirit of the past was leaving.

      She started to cry in anger.

      “It’s OK. Calm down”.

      “I’m calm. It’s just that son-of-a-bitch… He disappeared entirely from my life ten years ago when he found out that I was pregnant, and he turns up now. Today, the very day we bury Lucas, when he never even bothered to meet his son and in all these years we hadn’t heard anything from him, he appears out of nowhere to say that he’s sorry. This whole time I’ve been a single mother, making up stories about my life for a child who is no longer here and who asked about his dad… And now, the goddamn son-of-a-bitch turns up, here of all places…”

      Álvaro Guzmán had no words for such pain, and offered a calm hug instead.

      “A professional son-of-a-bitch… Let’s go”.

      With the help of a dump truck, the men were pouring earth on the barely visible white coffin.

      “Álvaro, I’m alone now”.

      Cristina tried to recompose herself by wiping her face. She hadn’t applied mascara because she knew her whole face would end up covered in black stains. Her eyes were red and moist. Guzmán gave her some space.

      “My car’s over there. I’ll drive you”.

      “I’d rather stay a bit longer”, she said, and pointed at some trees. “I’m going to visit Laura; I need to ask her a favor”.

      “You’re right. Lieutenant Almillar is in this cemetery. I’m sorry”.

      She started walking away; Guzmán watched her go; she turned around and said:

      “Thank you, Álvaro. I’ll go to the station later. I’d rather get over all this as soon as possible. What’s left for me, which isn’t much, is there”.

      “You don’t need to do it. Take a few days off”.

      “I’d rather go… and not spend my whole day thinking. It’s been a long year and…”

      “It’s been a bad one”, offered the white-haired policeman. “It’s already November”.

      “They’ve stolen October from me”.

      “When you come to the station, I’ll go with you to report the stolen month. When it comes to months, October is pretty important”.

      She smiled. Álvaro got into his car and drove off; meanwhile Cristina sunk back into the fog.

      The place grew silent as the two men that buried the boy left in a tiny electric cart, the sort you’d find in a golf course.

      In the distance, hidden, camouflaged behind a marbled pantheon, someone was drying her tears. She had watched Cristina from a distance during the funeral. She couldn’t have gone any closer; many would have recognized her and she was dead.

      ***

      In his car, Guzmán wondered whether he should go straight home and into the shower, or stop at Fumadera to buy marijuana. Would it be open by now? It was eleven in the morning and he was due in the police station at three for the evening shift; he had four hours ahead of him and did not feel hungry at all. He turned up the radio.

      …I want you to know, your blows

      are not going to separate us

      my heart is stronger than all that,

      death was never in the cards.

      I want you to know, your words

      are killing me at last…

      The ’19 Prius hybrid took the ring road and exited by the Río Becerra.

      He stopped at one of the spaces reserved for clients of Fumadera, literally, ‘the smoking area’, a green shop; its logo, two green circles with a dot in their center. It had opened its doors to pot smokers ten years ago and, even with that name, business was thriving. The light on the sign was on and Alvaro’s cannabis supplies were running low. He knew today he would need double the usual to fall asleep. The law allowed one ounce of cannabis per day, but Gaby, the owner of Fumadera –and perhaps the very last of the city’s hippies and an old follower of the ‘flower power’–, sold it to Álvaro in 100-gram bags, and this had been a particularly rough week; he needed it.

      “How, Álvaro”, said Gaby as he lifted his hand in what he considered to be the Native American style; his signature greeting. He wore a shabby bandana with camouflage print and had long hair